Alive
by impression
Summary: It's pretty lonely when your life consists of nothing but a bar. However, there's always that one thing that can brighten up your day. Pre-slash, swearing, bizarre pairing (I don't think it's bizarre, but I get the feeling someone else might...)


Alive  
  
by Minako  
  
Warnings: pre-slash... anything more would give it away, but you may not like my pairing... ^_~  
  
Rating: Rating!? I don't need your goddamned rating! ... PG-13 for swearing *rolls eyes* like anyone over six *hasn't* heard it before.  
  
Disclaimer: Simpsons characters and everything else in relation belong to Matt Groening. Go him. Read Life in Hell. ^_^  
  
Notes: Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write excessive slang?! I've been through this thing 5 times and I still think it's too proper for the character! Dammit! Maybe I need an OOC warning...  
  
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Another night of booze and brawls - drunks lyin' on the floor and slumped in the barstools. There's blood on the wall from an earlier fight. A guy's head hit the wall and blood sprayed from his nose. I booted his ass into the street. He won't be back. They never come back.  
  
I only got my regulars; my few close 'friends' who show up every single night. The scum of the city who have nowhere but my dive to go to. We waste our lives here. It don't matter that some people have families or people waitin' for them to return home. It don't matter to them that they got somethin' so precious within their reach. It don't matter that it's inchin' away with every hour they spend in oblivion. If I had what they got, I wouldn't come here. I'd pick myself up and find a real job.  
  
But, this is a real job. I'm self-employed, I guess. I got my own business with its loyal patrons. Maybe it ain't as respectable as it could be, but the outline looks good.  
  
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Single man, mid-thirties with prosperous business seeks relationship. Enjoys moonlit strolls. If interested, call Unfortunate at 764-8437*.  
  
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The money does roll in. I got enough to live well, by most people's standards. After all, the same drunks are here every night, and there're always a handful of people I never seen before. I gotta be makin' some profit, right? So what if I got nothin' better to do than gamble it away on nothin'?  
  
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Ugly, rejected man, mid-thirties with a gambling problem. Owns cheap bar and likes to spend his time lugging overweight, drunkard friends home. Seeking any kind of human contact. Will pay money. Call Unfortunate at 764-8437.  
  
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No chance of any half-witted person taking me up on that. They take one look at me an' run the other way. Only people who come back are the ones who're too drunk to realize I'm even here. The ones too lost in their own misery to help dig me out of mine.   
  
A belch echoes across the room, and I glance at the clock. One more hour until I close up shop and return to my empty, lonely shack. That's right shack. I don't need nothin' better.  
  
"Fil'er'p," the glass slides down the wooden counter and I catch it before it continues its travel to the edge. A good bartender would tell him he's had enough. A good person would offer to call him a cab.  
  
I fill the glass and slide it back down the counter.   
  
A man I don't know, a friend of a friend, makes a lunge at the glass, tryin' to grab it for himself. His clumsy, thick fingers send the glass off course and it smashes, sending three dollars and fifty cents worth of beer spraying around floor.   
  
"Wha't'ell'ya'doin'!?" slurs the first man, trying to lunge to his feet. He doesn't make it and slumps back in his chair. "Nee'a'new'n," he calls down to me. I leave the glass and the beer on the ground - I'll clean it when they're gone. Can't afford to take my eyes offa them for a minute. I've found 'em with their heads beneath the tap more than once.  
  
I fill a new glass and walk it down to the guy. On my way back, I add both drinks to the clumsy dolt's tab. He ain't keepin' count.  
  
I lean on the bar and watch the clock. Fifty-five minutes 'til I can close the doors on them. I dunno know when it was that I stopped wanting them here. I dunno know when it was that the smell of alcohol started makin' me sick. I dunno know when it was when I became unhappy with my life.  
  
The phone rings, and I absently pick it up, "Moe's Tavern. Moe speaking."  
  
A familiar voice drifts through the connection. Young, I'd guess. Probably just some kid. Just some kid with lazy, stupid parents who couldn't find five minutes to teach him right from wrong. Just some little prick who needs to be taught a lesson, "Hi, I'm looking for Mr. Rotch."  
  
I roll my eyes. The kid's slipping. He's used that one before, "Who?" I play along without thinking about it.  
  
"Rotch. First name, Mike," I smile, and shake my head.  
  
"Just a minute." I yank the phone away from my ear and shout across the room, "Mike Rotch?" several slovenly men who'd been half asleep suddenly jolt into awareness. "Guys, I'm looking for Mike Rotch!"   
  
Those who can think through their alcohol haze start to laugh. Some 'cause I just told them I'm looking for my crotch, others 'cause they see the phone in my hand and know that I've been duped again.   
  
I can hear his voice cackling on the other end of the line as I put the phone back to my ear, "Why you little horselicking houserat!" I yell, lettin' go of passion no one sees, "If I ever find out who you are, I'll tie you down and carve my name into your back with my fingernails!" I slam the phone back onto the hook and try to catch my breath.  
  
The bar quickly quiets down and returns to its drab state. I glance at the clock again - less than two minutes have passed. For some reason, I feel awake. Like I just found somethin' new. I lean on the bar and close my eyes.  
  
The only time I feel alive is when I scream at that punk. The only thing I look forward to is my humiliation at his hands. Sometimes I think that kid is all I live for.   
  
I snort, but no one looks up. Figures, the only person I love is a kid as fucked up and lonely as I am.  
  
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* In the episode where Smithers goes on vacation and Homer takes over his job, Burns tries to phone Smithers for help when Homer fucks things up. He dials SMITHERS on the phone, and gets Moe's Tavern. Smithers is eight numbers, but I'm pretty sure that the phone stops processing after seven unless you've dialed one for long distance.  
  
And that was my fic. Whaddya think? Does my written slang still need help? C&C are welcome (craved), kind crits are okay, but flames make me cry. 


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